Like the locks of ashy hair thrown aside,
the bushes wave and crisp. Each tiny web
is a transparent banner of the time
that grasps and breaks. And how can it withhold
its property when it does not have control
over its own glamour in the mist?
The things are pulled together to reject
its domination. Desperate and numb,
but shouting with every curl and tress,
the willow-tree is clinging to the wall
and supplementing its peculiar text
with the phrases from an alien alphabet.
The roaming road is bending like a whip
and crumpling flaky flowers on the side.
The sky, as if it’s coaxing someone,
is melting, swelling, blooming. To insist
when no one objects, as if inside
there is a doubt in one’s own regard.
The hills are mild and tender ere they’re born:
they make the dust aspire by the rough
and clumsy steps of the steep, and tear off
its dumpy expectations. They are not
themselves a substance, but a mere form
of upward motion. They appear to
resist, but gradually, stone by stone,
go slowly down and return once more
to the unyielding cicrle of the stage
of this surviving theatre. Again
they try to resurrect its flashy ochre
of summer bushes, but soon topple, fail.
All way around - the flourish mad and mixed
with boiling honey of the devouring son.
They know ‘tis impossible so why
they’re so persistent, who will give this land
to anybody, except for those who can’t
keep it for longer than this decaying age.
Thus dust, transforming to unnumbered tunes,
keeps its illusions: the rains are sliding through
its firm and non-appointed shuttering screen
watching what there’s behind, not hidden but forlorn -
and, being so hungry for complaint,
all substances reveal themselves. It seems
that due to this the scales are being kept,
the needle is still dancing in the hands
which constantly improve their high concern
for the defeat. Like throbbing of remorse
under the carpet of the flashing thoughts,
wet smell of moss is penetrating through
the present conjugation, and the thin
pulsating odour of its rotten roots:
the birds are dropping the knots of mercury
that flop and scatter, bobbing on the edge
of a whistle, to get lost - to spring anew
on the relentless angle of the sphere.
У произведения нет ни одного комментария, вы можете стать первым!